-•*• 

I 


OH,  WHY  SHOULD  THE  SPIRIT 
OF  MORTAL  BE  PROUD? 


BY 


WILLIAM    KNOX 


DESIGNS   BY   MISS   L.  B.   HUMPHREY 


ENGRAVED  BY  JOHN  ANDREW  &  SON 


BOSTON 
LEE    AND    SHEPARD,    PUBLISHERS 

NE-W   YORK 

CHARLES   T.   DILLINGHAM 
1883 


Copyright, 

1876, 
BY  LEE  AND  SHEPARD. 


H,  why    should    the   spirit    of  mortal 

be  proud  ? 

Like  a  swift  fleeting  meteor,  a  fast-flying  cloud. 
A  flash  of  the  lightning,  a  break  of  the  wave, 
Man  passeth  from  life  to  his  rest  in  the  grave. 


The  leaves  of  the  oak  and  the  willow  shall  fade, 
Be  scattered  around  and  together  be  laid ; 
And  the  young  and  the  old,  and  the  low  and  the  high, 
Shall  moulder  to  dust  and  together  shall  lie. 


HE    infant  a    mother   attended   and 

loved ; 
The  mother  that    infant's  affection  who 

proved  ; 
The   husband   that    mother    and    infant 

who  blessed, 
Each,  all,  are  away  to  their  dwellings  of  rest 


HE    maid    on  whose    cheek,   on    whose 

brow,  in  whose  eye, 

Shone  beauty  and  pleasure,  —  her  triumphs  are  by  ; 
And  the  memory  of  those  who  loved  her  and  praised, 
Are  alike  from  the  minds  of  the  living  erased. 


HE    hand  of   the  king    that    the 

sceptre  hath  borne; 
The    brow    of  the    priest  that    the 

mitre  hath  worn ; 
The  eye  of  the  sage  and  the  heart  of  the  brave, 
Are  hidden  and  lost  in  the  depth  of  the  grave. 


'HE  peasant  whose 

lot  was  to  sow  and  to  reap ; 
The    herdsman,  who    climbed  with    his    goats    up 

the  steep ; 

The  beggar,  who  wandered  in  search  of  his  bread, 
Have  faded  away  like  the  grass  that  we  tread. 


(HE  saint  who  enjoyed  the  communion 

of  heaven, 

The  sinner  who  dared  to  remain  unforgiven, 
The  wise  and  the  foolish,  the  guilty  and  just, 
Have  quietly  mingled  their  bones  in  the  dust. 


So  the  multitude  goes,  like  the  flower  or  the  weed 
That  withers  away  to  let  others  succeed; 
So  the  multitude  comes,  even  those  we  behold, 
To  repeat  every  tale  that  has  often  been  told. 


'OR   we    are    the    same    our    fathers     have 

been  ; 

We  see  tlie  same  sights  our  fathers  have  seen,- 
We  drink    the    same    stream    and   view  the    same 


sun, 


And  run  the  same  course   our  fathers  have  run. 


The  thoughts  we  are   thinking   our   fathers  would 

think  ; 
From  the  death  we  are  shrinking  our  fathers  would 

shrink ; 

To  the  life  we  are  clinging  they  also  would  cling ; 
But  it  speeds  for  us  all,  like  a  bird  on  the  wing. 


HEY    loved,    but    the    story    we    cannot 

unfold  ; 
They  scorned,  but  the  heart  of  the  haughty 

is  cold  ; 
They   grieved,    but    no  .wail    from   their 

slumbers  will  come  ; 
They  joyed,  but  the  tongue  of  their  gladness  is  dumb. 


They  died,  ay !  they  died :  and  we  things  that  are 

now, 

Who  walk  on  the  turf  that  lies  over  their  brow, 
Who  make  in  their  dwelling  a  transient  abode, 
Meet  the  things  that  they  met  on  their  pilgrimage 

road. 


EA !  hope    and    despondency,   pleasure 

and   pain, 
f}    We   mingle    together   in    sunshine  and 

rain  ; 
And  the  smiles  and  the  tears,  the  song   and   the 

dirge, 
Still  follow  each  other,  like  surge  upon  surge. 


Tis  the  wink  of  an  eye,  'tis  the  draught  of  a  breath, 
From  the  blossom  of  health  to  the  paleness  of  death, 
From  the  gilded  saloon  to  the  bier  and  the  shroud,  - 
Oh,  why  should  the  spirit  of  mortal  be  proud  ? 


-a. 


